Here Today, Gone Tomorrow
by Caridwyn
Summary: After the Great Game Sherlock continues to pursue Moriarty but is hampered by something. Is drugs the answer? Or is it making things worse? Slash. More with continued interest
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **This is the first time in a very long time since I've written a fan fiction of any sort, so please bear with me. The beginning starts off with a recap of the last few minutes of 'The Great Game' (season one episode three) mostly to set the scene and delve a little into Sherlock's mind, as Sherlock's mind is going to be a feature of this piece. I hope you don't mind the recap, and enjoy the rest of the chapter. Don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any characters or ideas from Sherlock...though I do wish they would lend Benedict to me so I could figure out exactly what color his eyes really are...not that I'm complaining about spending hours staring into screenshots to try and discern it myself.

**Chapter 1**

_Frantically tearing at the jacket covering John's shoulders, I rip the fabric off him in a display of desperation that surprises even me. Wrenching that accursed vest off of my Watson, I begin to speak. "Alright?" I gasp, amazed at how truly affected I am, how anxious I am to hear his answer, his affirmative, for it must be so. "Are you alright!"_

"_Yeah yeah," he said quickly, the relief and weariness pervading his voice were easy to pick up, even in my frantic state. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Sherlock," he said my name softly as I put that wretched thing down, away from John, safely away."Sherlock!" he says more firmly as I slide the bomb away from us and turn back to him. _

_He is breathing heavily, obviously the shock and terror of having a bomb strapped to him and both our lives threatened was affecting him. I race out to ensure that Moriarty is indeed gone, before coming back in to find my John breathing heavily, fallen to the floor. Relief, I must admit, can indeed be overwhelming - especially when suspicion and uncertainty lie under it. I pace, scratching my head with John's gun, my mind whirling, calculating, deducing Moriarty's next move before he can catch us like that again. Being unprepared, is not something I am comfortable with._

"_Are you okay?" John's voice interrupts my train of thought._

_I don't look at him. "Me? Yeah, I'm fine. Fine," my pacing slows, my heart beating strangely fast inside my chest. Adrenaline, I inform myself, the reduction of adrenaline in my blood making me more anxious than need be. Scattered. Unfocused. "That uh, thing that you did, that you um, offered to do...That was um..." words had never failed me before. I avoid looking at John as I try to complete my broken sentence. "Good," I'm twitching and jittery, still trying to regain my composure after seeing my Watson so close to death. It had been a narrow escape. _

"_I'm glad no one saw that."_

"_Hm?" I glance down at John, still mildly distracted._

"_You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool...people might talk."_

_That got my attention. My eyes focused on John, his anxious face slowly softening with relief. The way he avoided my gaze, making a joke at such at time, it was endearing. _'Oh indeed John,' _I think to myself. _'People would talk, and I might wish they were right.' _I don't voice my thoughts aloud, saying instead, "People do little else," and I feel a small smile cross my features as the adrenaline settles and the calm sets in. Pure and free, I feel it wash through me and a light chuckle rises from my chest. It is short lived._

_A little red dot is dancing on John's chest again. A quick glance down proves it is true for me as well. The fear is back, but not the panic nor the desperation. I have thought of this._

"_I'm sorry boys," I keep my back to Moriarty as he prances through the door. "I'm soooooo changeable! It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."_

_I glance down at John, meeting his eyes. I wonder if he can tell what I am thinking. Of course not! John's brain doesn't work like mine, but I hope he will trust me._

"_You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't."_

_Moriarty is still talking, my brain continues to work, giving me the only possible solution, the only way out._

"_I would try to convince you but...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."_

_It was true; there was nothing Jim could say that would stop me. After all, we had a game to continue playing, and losing was not an option. I glance at John again, he nods. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." Slowly, deliberately, I turn around, gun raised, hand steady, I point the muzzle at Jim, my gaze calm and determined. Then I lower the gun, no longer pointing it at Jim Moriarty's face, I aim the weapon at the bomb that lies between us. Raising my eyes, I meet his gaze steadily. No emotions betray me, though Jim smirks. He doesn't think I'll risk John. He is wrong. If I don't risk it, then there is a one hundred percent chance that he will be gone instead of our thirteen point five seven nine percent chance of survival if I pull the trigger._

_Slowly, deliberately, never taking my eyes off Jim Moriarty's face, I squeeze the trigger..._

"John!" the name tore from his throat in a strangled cry, the painfully thin man shooting straight up in bed, his breathing fast and erratic. Frantic eyes darted around the room, taking everything in and coming to the same conclusion he had every other time he had woken up from this dream: he was home - on his couch to be precise.

Groaning, he passed a hand over his eyes, slumping back onto the couch, his face lined with pain. That had been a mistake, sitting up so suddenly; he could feel the stitches in his side stretching uncomfortably, the cuts along his back protesting with the unexpected muscular movement. Yes, a mistake, he must remember that he was not yet back in top form. Still, the pain was manageable now that he had taken treatment into his own hands – it even allowed his brain to function more effectively.

"Sherlock?" the familiar voice of Mrs. Hudson sounded from his doorway. She was nervous, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her just as surely as the fact that she had not come straight into the flat. She was waiting for his permission, something she was doing more and more these days, wary of his increasingly unpredictable behaviour.

"Come in Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called distractedly, straightening to an actual sitting position with a good deal of pain. Elbows balanced on his knees, his head resting on his thumbs as his steepled fingers touched his nose, the world's only consulting detective stared unseeingly at the collection of manila folders that were slowly taking over his living room.

"Dear me Sherlock, what have you done to the place this time?" Mrs. Hudson carefully circumvented the precarious piles, moving over to stand at the end of the couch.

"I'm searching Mrs. Hudson," he said softly, finally turning his head to look at his landlady. "Why have you disrupted my work?"

"There's a parcel for you dear," she said softly, holding out a large box to him. "Just left on the stoop, and since you don't go out anymore..."

"Thank-you Mrs. Hudson, you can leave it on the couch beside me there."

Nodding, the woman carefully laid the parcel next to Sherlock before beginning to inch back out of the flat. "Sherlock dear," she said, pausing at the door.

"Mmmm?" the man finally looked up at her, the bags beneath his eyes showing how little sleep he was actually getting.

"Perhaps you should talk to someone about those nightmares dear...they seem to be getting worse."

"I'm fine Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said wearily, turning his eyes back to the open folders on the coffee table. It was there. He knew it was there. Whatever he needed was staring straight at him...Why couldn't he see it?

"You need to take better care of yourself," Mrs. Hudson admonished.

Sherlock groaned, she had been saying that for weeks now. He knew what she was saying, had acknowledged her words, but right now he needed to focus. Personal hygiene, eating, sleeping, he only did enough so his vessel didn't collapse. His mind needed to work, everything else was mere transportation. The answer to the puzzle was here, he knew it. The next move was staring him in the face if he could only work out what it was. "Concentrate Sherlock," he hissed, fingers digging into his temple as his eyes scanned the pictures for the umpteenth time.

"Are you listening to me Sherlock? You need to take care of yourself it's what he -"

"That will be all! Thank-you Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock barked in exasperation.

The old lady made a tutting noise, but retreated back down the stairs, half relieved for the excuse, but mostly worried. That Sherlock, he hadn't been the same since that incident; always staring at those folders...it was unnatural was what it was.

"The game is not over Moriarty," Sherlock muttered, raking his fingers through his hair, letting out a growl of frustration. "I will beat you...I must..." desperately, his eyes raked the papers again before he let out a cry of pure exasperation. Angrily, Sherlock swiped at the folders on the table, causing papers to fly everywhere as he jumped to his feet, pacing angrily.

"CONCENTRATE!" he bellowed at himself, turning to the mantle, he reached into Yorick's mouth (John had named his skull, something about it suiting his love for the dramatic, honestly, he thought it was stretching it a bit...but it did please John so he had not complained to ardently) pulling out a small bag. Ah yes, with this he could concentrate. The nicotine patches had stopped working ages ago, but this...this was ideal. Taking out a small amount, he expertly inserted it into the needle, making sure to check for bubbles before he administered it to himself. The affects were immediate.

It was like a weight had dropped from his shoulders, the pain receded into the very back of his mind. Everything was so much more in focus. Yes! Yes! He could think with this, everything sharp and clear, standing out for him to take notice. Like this he would find the answer. He returned his attention to the papers he had scattered, picking them up off the floor haphazardly.

Eyes scanning the information, he reorganized the files, piling them up once more as he flipped through the pages. Scanning the familiar information, a slow smile began to spread across Sherlock's gaunt face. Yes! Yes! So obvious! How could he have possibly missed this before? So simple, so easy, it was a trail even a child could follow. "Found you Jim," he smirked.

"Sherlock?" the soothing voice of his doctor came from down the hall, John had just woken up.

"In the living room!"

"What's all the shouting about?" he asked perplexed, coming into the room, looking at Sherlock in concerned confusion.

"We've got him!" Sherlock cried in triumph, a paper clenched tightly in his fist as he practically ran across the cluttered room to pull John into his arms. Bending his head, he captured the doctor's lips for a hard, euphoric kiss before tenderly cupping one of John's cheeks with his hand. "We've got him John! I'll win this game..."

_I'll win it for you._


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **Right! So here it is! Chapter 2 and it didn't even take me all that long to write! Woo! I'm not promising such fast updates all the time, but I just can't wait to get this story really moving. Thanks to everyone who subscribed to this story, it gives me warm fuzzies every time I get an email saying there are those out there actually interested in my fic! I love to hear thoughts and opinions on this, so please don't hesitate to comment or speculate, as I'm sure I will write faster with more interest.

Oh yes! A big shout-out to my new Beta **jesicahazel** for being awesome and going over this with me, I hope I don't disappoint.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters, nor am I profiting from this work of fiction.

**Chapter 2**

Recently he'd discovered that once he started kissing John he couldn't seem to stop. The simple euphoric kiss of triumph had somehow led to another, and another, and another. It was addicting. Sherlock needed more of his doctor, always more. He had pulled the still toned body of John Watson tight against him, deepening those kisses, fire igniting in his blood and causing the strange sensation of foggy thoughts to enter his mind as they fumbled back toward the couch. Unable to stop now that things had started, Sherlock made certain they came to a very satisfying temporary conclusion. After all, John needed some respite – or at least that is what he had been informed – after the activities the kisses led to.

"Are you wearing my boxers?"

Sherlock blinked, looking up at John, a completely satiated smirk on his face as he kissed John's already kiss-swollen lips once. "Very astute observation Dr. Watson," he practically purred. Pulling back, he cupped John's face, stroking his cheek with a thumb as he released a soft sigh.

"_Sherlock."_

"Sherlock..." there was a sigh in John's voice, sadness lingering in his eyes. "You can't continue on like this..."

"On like what?" he asked softly, frowning as the change in his Watson's attitude. He had been so willing, so happy mere moments ago, why was he suddenly saying they couldn't continue?

"_Sherlock."_

A muffled, and decidedly annoyed, voice made its way to the consulting detective's ear, disturbing the moment he had created with his John. Frowning, Sherlock shook his head, as if the voice were just an annoying buzz in his ear that could be easily dislodged; his eyes never left John's face. "What is it John? What can't I continue? Is the sex inadequate?" Though he searched John's eyes, his body language, Sherlock could not for the life of him deduce what the man was upset about.

"_Sherlock!"_

Again, that annoyed voice was buzzing in his ear, this time though, there seemed to be a note of panic. The man shook his head again, feeling the euphoria beginning to diminish, the clarity that came with the drugs beginning to turn fuzziness once more. His arms tightened desperately around John as he looked up at him. There was resignation in his doctor's brown eyes; resignation, and understanding. Sherlock shook his head desperately. Despite this, John sat up, slowly pulling out of the circle of his arms, a hand caressing his cheek gently as he pulled away and turned his attention elsewhere.

"I say Sherlock! Did you hear me?"

"Can you not see that I am rather otherwise occupied," the man snapped, his eyes turning to Lestrade who was currently standing in amongst the precarious piles of manila folders. Once again it seemed the man had let himself in, disturbing things he would rather have had left alone. So he was the one that had caused John to withdraw from him, leaving his arms cold and empty.

A sense of loss and disappointment filled Sherlock, replacing the warmth John had taken with him. Frowning, he hurried to bring his attention to his doctor, but it was too late, for he was now retreating down the hall. Returning to his room no doubt, and probably to get redressed, a pity, he did so love to see John's body exposed before him. Sherlock would have gladly displayed their relationship openly so that everyone could see that John was indeed his. He would have taken great delight in small public displays of affection to ensure that everyone knew that John Watson belonged to Sherlock Holmes, and that he was never going to let go of his precious Watson. Apparently John had other ideas as he seemed incredibly shy when it came to exposing their new relationship, though Sherlock had no idea why.

"Bloody hell! Are...are you not wearing any trousers?" Lestrade demanded his eyes widening in shock, and then shrinking again. Strain was weighing on the detective inspector; it was obvious in the subtle tensing of his shoulder muscles as well as in the way his mouth tightened – though that could also be disapproval Sherlock noted. "Sherlock...you can't continue on like this," he said softly, taking in the state of the man. He was running haggard, his dark brown curls greasy and limp due to lack of showering, his usually sharp cheek bones standing out even more gauntly than before, and the state of his ribs...it was impossible not to notice how starkly they stood out with him sitting there so exposed. Not to mention the extremely obvious used needle lying discarded on top of his mantle. Things were getting worse.

"Can," the man said contrarily, sitting up, his features pinching as the stitches stretched once again. Those weren't looking good either. He was pushing himself too hard. Everyone seemed to know it except the man in question.

"Sorry, what?" Lestrade focused his eyes on Sherlock's face again. He knew he should be more concerned about that needle, he was a police officer after all, and he had his duty. Fortunately, he had not come here to do that particular duty today; there was something else, something that required the attention of Sherlock Holmes.

"I am perfectly capable of 'continuing on like this'," he said simply. "In fact, I am even inclined to. It is working quite well for me. Although I can tell that you would obviously prefer if I did not, and if that is the case you would say that I '_shouldn't'_ continue on, not that I 'can't'. And I really don't see that whether or not I'm wearing trousers is any of your business, as you just let yourself into my flat."

"I obviously came to tell you something," the man said exasperated. "There's a case I think you should see but...Sherlock. Have you seen the state of this place? Of yourself?"

"Oh yes, sorry about the mess, John and I have been a little preoccupied with the case. I'm sure it will all get cleared up once this is sorted."

"John and..." a small sigh escaped the man. "Sherlock! This has got to stop!" Lestrade's eyes were desperate as he turned them to the other male. "And for God's sake what case? You can't possibly know about-"

"Moriarty of course," Sherlock interrupted testily, standing in one swift movement. He had to support himself with the arm of the couch however, as the room swayed alarmingly with the quick movement. A quick glance at Lestrade, then the wall calendar, proved to him that it was probably time to eat. It was Friday after all, judging by the state of Lestrade's afternoon shadow, the dirt on his shoes, and the way his shoulders sagged (and a rough week too by the look of things), and Sherlock knew he hadn't eaten since...oh, probably Tuesday. Yes, Tuesday...he supposed a few more hours couldn't harm him though, so he carefully straightened, dismissing the concern from his mind. "I've got a lead."

"A lead?" Lestrade watched the consulting detective carefully, ready to catch him if he did indeed fall over as he was threatening to do. "How could you possibly have a lead? You haven't left your flat for weeks! And look about that, I've been calling there is a matter-"

"That's precisely the reason Detective Inspector," Sherlock cut across him again, an almost...excited look about him. It had been quite some time since Lestrade had seen that look, and it was certainly an improvement - although a worrying improvement. "Nothing to bother me, nothing to cloud the senses or distract the mind, just these," he motioned to his collection of folders, "and John. That was all I needed," there was a slightly manic light to his eye as he let go of the support of the couch.

"Holmes..." he said, eyeing him. "What in the blazes are you going on about?"

"All in good time," he assured the man, a slight smirk playing across his lips. "All in good time," and for a moment, he seemed to be transported somewhere else. Sherlock's eyes became unfocused as he looked at something that only he could see, triumph slowly steeling over his features.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade leaned in; this was seriously getting out of hand. "This is all well and good, but you really should know about the case I came to talk to you about."

Inhaling sharply, Sherlock's eyes snapped back into focus as he turned his gaze on Lestrade. "Right! No time to waste, I shall collect John and meet you at New Scotland Yard. The game is afoot Detective Inspector, and I don't mean to let him get any more ahead of me."

Passing a hand over his face, Lestrade sighed. "Holmes," he said carefully. "There is a reason I came here as I've been trying to tell you, and it can't really wait but, look, I know you haven't left here in weeks, but society hasn't changed all that much. Put on some ruddy trousers before you go anywhere."

"Ah," Sherlock glanced down at himself. "Right you are," he nodded absently.

Lestrade shook his head. Honestly, Sherlock was even more difficult than ever, and he hadn't even paused a moment to hear the reason he was here. Well, once again he seemed to have gotten caught up in the pace of Sherlock Holmes and the man wasn't letting him go until his own agenda was satisfied.

"You can't tell me you haven't noticed," Sally Donovan accused her superior, an incredulous look in her eyes. "He's gone completely mad! The freak is gone and I don't know what's been left in his place. Seems hard to believe, but I would rather have him back than...whatever _that_ is now. Who knew there could be something worse than him."

"Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade said a note of warning in his voice, "I haven't failed to notice anything, but he is still Sherlock Holmes, and we need his help on this case."

"You haven't even _told_ him about the case," she hissed back.

"I haven't had the chance now have I? What with his going on about a lead...If helping him with whatever lead he thinks he has found on Moriarty is what it takes, we're going to bloody well do it!"

Sally's eyes tightened as she crossed her arms over her chest, displeasure evident in her features. She had hardly been able to stand the man when he was mostly sane, let alone now that he was slowly, but inevitably, losing his mind. "He shouldn't have been allowed to help before Detective Inspector," she responded miffed. "Now he's more likely to hinder us. Especially if you consider who the victim is this time. What he needs is another drugs bust. Maybe then he'll go back to his normal freak self."

"Sergeant Donovan..."

"Yes Sergeant Donovan, it is most rude to talk about people as if they are not there. You know, the fact that Anderson's wife is back in town does not mean you should take your sexual frustrations out on me."

Sally swore, turning around to see the consulting detective standing calmly behind her. His curls were dishevelled, eyes dark with lack of sleep and while normally he at least looked presentable, he was now anything but. His wool coat only barely managed to cover his rumpled shirt and un-pressed blazer. His trousers, on the other hand, were unfortunately not covered and looked as if they had been sitting in a corner unwashed for weeks. All of his clothing hung off him in an alarming fashion and it rather looked as if Sherlock had become nothing more than a skeleton that was able to move on will alone.

"How long have you been standing there freak?" she snarled, stepping back, putting some much needed distance between them. The way he pointed such things out, not even bothering to try and keep his damned voice down, put her more on edge than she normally was around him.

"Not long, I was just about to interrupt as there are more important things to be discussing. Although, to be perfectly frank, I am still baffled as to why you still deny my obvious competence, as I am sure I've caught quite a few criminals that you would have otherwise lost," he gave her a slightly condescending look before sweeping to the front of the precinct and toward Lestrade.

"Sherlock," he coughed slightly, watching as Sergeant Donovan spun away in disgust. "Speaking of your expertise, there is a case I need you to look at."

"That can wait," the man said waving his hand in a dismissive manner. "I've found him: Moriarty," the manic light to Sherlock's eyes appeared again. "And I won't let him get away this time."

"That's just it Sherlock," Lestrade said softly, urgently, steering the other man into his office. "This case, we're fairly certain it's a message for you."

"A message for me?" Sherlock looked at the detective inspector curiously. "From whom?"

Lestrade's face tightened again as he took out a manila folder and laid it on the desk. It only took a quick glance and Sherlock knew immediately why the detective inspector thought it was a message for him – even the idiots here couldn't miss it – the name on the folder said it all: Dr. Sarah Sawyer.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **Soooooooooooo...I realize this chapter has been long in coming...almost two months...I get on my knees and beg everyone's forgiveness. – bows down –

You see, I got kidnapped by school, it held a gun to my head and ordered me to be a good student or it would shoot me. I told it I'd take the gun...and then it gave me the gun...and then I died...and then my squash court beat me back alive saying I wasn't allowed to die without finishing this fic...and so here I am...

I hope I haven't been so long that I lost what little following I had managed to gain...and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! Please don't hesitate to comment or offer suggestions, as I positively adore hearing from people!

Also! A big shout out to my squash court! You know who you are, though I would appreciate being beat less, I couldn't have finished this chapter without you! Another thanks to my beta **jesicahazel** for staying interested in this even after two months and correcting my pig-headedness.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Sherlock or any characters contained in this story. It is purely a work of fiction for my own enjoyment and no profit.

**Chapter 3**

A name was all it was really; a label for a folder that normally Sherlock would have brushed off as insignificant. After all, people hardly died because of their name, at least not their name by itself. This time though, this time the name held significance. It held significance for his John. Where was John?

Sherlock glanced anxiously behind him, relieved to see that the man hadn't followed him into Lestrade's office. Turning back to the folder on the desk, Sherlock's eyes narrowed in concentration. "Don't tell John," the man's voice came out as hardly more than a whisper, his eyes intense as he continued to stare at that name. Of all the thoughts running through Sherlock's head, this was by far the most important. John could _not_ know of this, at least, not until there were some answers to give him. "Understood?" he glanced over to Lestrade, leaning on the Detective Inspector's desk. "He cannot know."

"Yes..." Lestrade responded a little surprised that this was the first thing Sherlock said. Watching him carefully, the man was shocked further by the blatant _emotion_ he saw on the man's face. Concern was evident in his eyes as their gazes met. Dear Lord! Sherlock was actually being earnest. This was no trick; he was genuinely concerned for John's emotional state of well being. There was actually a man behind the mask. That fact alone was miraculous - and cause for a bit of worry on Lestrade's part as well. "Yes," he repeated himself. "Yes of course Sherlock."

The consulting detective nodded curtly, returning his eyes to the, as of yet, unopened folder. Oh, he had his suspicions about what was inside; it didn't take a man of his intelligence to figure it out. After all, Lestrade had said he'd been calling - and it wasn't as if he made a habit of calling for no reason - furthermore, he had actually come to his flat to pick him up, that was even more unusual. For Lestrade to actually come get him the case had to be serious. There had to be something strange, inexplicable, the kind of case Sherlock enjoyed above all others or...had enjoyed. There were other things occupying his mind now. Put the two together, and it was obvious that this couldn't be an ordinary case. No, the detective had that look about him. He couldn't have been trying to get in touch for more than a week. That meant that either the case was time sensitive, kidnapping, or there was a possibility of losing evidence, which, of course, meant only one thing: murder. He glanced behind him again, assuring himself that John had not yet made his way in to Lestrade's office. Turning, he closed Lestrade's door, locking it swiftly before looking back at the envelope. He supposed it was time to open it now.

His eyes scanned the documents before him, moving quickly over the pictures and reports, taking it all in, but not saying anything. "I'll need to see the body," he said softly, almost absently as he continued to look over the evidence gathered. "I assume you have it at Bart's."

"Yes," Lestrade sighed softly, watching the man carefully. "But can you tell me anything?"

"What's so special about this case?" Sherlock asked, not answering his question as he raised his eyes from the photos of the crime scene, completely un-phased by the gruesome picture they painted. "You never call me in unless you have to, and I hardly think the fact that Dr. Sawyer is the victim here would change your mind so drastically. Inform us, yes perhaps, but call me in for the case," he stared at the Detective Inspector hard. "No, there's more here, something you're not telling me."

"I haven't told you _anything_ yet."

"The murder occurred on Wednesday," Sherlock said softly, turning his eyes back down to the photographs. "You can tell by the rain in the photos, light, but there are puddles in the alleyway. It hasn't rained since Tuesday, but it had been raining the two days before, which accounts for the puddles despite the lack of rain and how early in the day it is. Pictures don't tell me much, but I can clearly see that this occurred in the alleyway behind Dr. Sawyer's clinic from the little glimpse of the clinic hours your crime scene investigators caught in their photographs. This is a bit strange, considering I happen to know that she locks up in the front. She must have been accosted then, fine. So it's a murder. Not that strange for someone to be killed in an out of the way place, but it was still close to her work place which means she must have been taken from inside. Her clothes are rumpled, pockets turned out, purse missing, meant to look like a mugging gone wrong then. Not a mugging though, since you've called me in, and you've been quite insistent on getting hold of me too." He took out his phone, he had already glanced at it on the way over, but he flashed Lestrade the 'missed calls' screen. "Six calls a day, hardly like you Detective Inspector. So what is so special about this case that you're not telling me?"

Lestrade looked at him carefully. He really shouldn't be surprised by this anymore. "The body is at Bart's yes," he said, avoiding answering the question. "I want your thoughts before I fill you in."

"Right," he nodded, straightening, closing the folder with a snap. "I'll know more once I can actually see something up close! Photos are useless, two dimensional, flat; they don't let me _see_ anything. The scene will be contaminated by now no doubt, so that means we must go to Bart's." Turning with his usual flourish, Sherlock stumbled as the room spun alarmingly. He hardly heard Lestrade's shout before the room was tilting, darkness creeping into the edges of his vision.

Sherlock wasn't even aware he hit the floor.

_A bullet from an L106A1 - Moriarty had been wrong on that count, the Browning L9A1was not the standard issued fire arm for troops in Afghanistan, they now carried sig sauer P226Rs, but that had been inconsequential earlier, now, that was not the case. A bullet from an L106A1 travels at 383 feet per second, while the delay on an explosive device is approximately .00356 seconds. That gives me .02975 seconds to counteract, or at least diminish, the effects of the explosive device on John and I when it lies only 10 feet in front of us. I have already calculated the chances of survival…but there is no other way._

_Meeting Moriarty's eyes, my expression remains carefully neutral. There is no doubt, Moriarty knows exactly what I have decided, what remains to be seen is whether or not he actually believes I will do it. This is of no real consequence of course, whether or not he believes I will take the risk, I have already made up my mind; after all, it is the most viable course of action._

_Shifting my weight toward John, my finger rests lightly on the trigger. It is all a matter of timing__.__ Perfect timing. If I do not draw it out just long enough…I catch the slight twitch in Moriarty's face. _

_Now!_

_Leaning carefully, I reach for John's collar at the exact same instant I squeeze the trigger. The clock has started._

_We fall toward the water, John's weight has been displaced by my abrupt exertion of force and this is provides the momentum for our current movement. From the instant I pulled we had had .02975 seconds. At .02611 seconds the bullet hits the explosive; at .02893 seconds the explosives ignite; and at .02975 seconds the blast occurs. Concussion waves spread first, working on the inertia I have already created, they crash into me, knocking the air from my lungs as I am pushed further back; toward safety. _

_Water closes over my head. I have reached the pool then, the liquid acting as a buffer against further harm._

_My ears are ringing. A result of being so close to the center of the blast, and they will continue to ring for awhile I know. My hearing may not ever fully recover, but a little loss of hearing is far preferable to the alternative._

_I feel a burning sensation on my upper arm. My leg. My side. My back. The tiles off the pool have turned into missiles, rocketed forward by the force of the explosion. The stinging burn continues as my lungs begin to scream for air. I should have had at least three minutes of safety under the water, but I had had no air left when it closed over my head. A minor miscalculation, after all, I have never experienced the effects of a bomb before._

_It is over in an instant, yet even for me that instant seems to stretch on for an eternity. I have always thought that saying to be quite ridiculous. After all, time does not alter, only peoples' perceptions of time changes; a thousand thoughts can cross through a mind in a single second, and that is how time can seem to expand. Mundane individuals, _stupid _ individuals become aware, just for that fleeting moment, of their true potential, and they write it off as the mere prolonging of a moment. Ridiculous. Now though…now I understand, as more and more thoughts flood my mind, considerations I had not thought of before I squeezed that trigger. However, the loudest n my mind is just one word, a name: _John_!_

_Where is John? He had flown out of my grasp when the blast wave hit us. _

_I swim for the surface, my lungs are screaming for air, and my mind is screaming for John. My head breaks the surface of the water and I gulp in the air hungrily, then immediately start to cough. It is acrid and burns all the way down. The air is thin, used up by the explosion. _

_I am still gasping for breath as I look around at the destruction I have enabled Moriarty to wreak. The rubble is inconsequential, the flames a mere distraction. Where is John? My eyes dart around the pool, looking for his familiar face, his mop of dirty blond hair, that hideous plaid shirt he had been wearing…_

_I am pulled under the water again, my blazer, now saturated, weighing me down. I quickly shrug it off; kicking my shoes off as well I fight for the surface once more. Gasping desperately, I gulp the scorching air into my empty lungs, coughing up the water that had managed to infiltrate them as well. "John," I croak, at last seeing him across the water. I had been blown farther than him, although that was only to be expected due to our relative positions when the blast had occurred._

_There is a dim form behind John. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my eyes of smoke and water, reaching toward him I call his name again, trying to swim through the debris ridden pool to get to him. Who was that? Moriarty? His sniper? It couldn't be anyone good because no one else should know that we are here._

_John is pulled from the water as I slowly make my way across the water. The sheer amount of rubble and the fact that I am still losing blood from the many lacerations that cover my body makes it difficult to make any headway. Reaching the other side, I am gasping, the little air that is not being consumed by the fires of the bomb is thin and smoke filled. Coughing, I cling to what is left of the side of the pool, my vision starting to blur. Not enough air, too much blood loss…I don't know how much longer I can remain conscious._

_Another figure appears out of the smoke. Blearily, I look up at it, not fully comprehending what is happening. My mental facilities have also been diminished by the lack of oxygen to my brain. _

_Someone is pulling me up out of the water, dragging me through the rubble, shielding me from the flames. Suddenly, I am outside. Crisp, cool, clean air floods into my lungs. I start coughing again, my legs losing all strength. The figure at my side picks me up, carrying me toward…is that an ambulance? Yes, yes it is, and standing beside it…_

"_Mycroft," I cough, trying to remain disdainful despite my current ragged state. "I should have known," my brother has obviously been monitoring my movements. No surprise there, but it is rare for him to actually intervene. Well, I suppose when one's life is at stake perspectives change._

"_Yes," my brother says softly, his eyes travelling over my battered form. "It would probably be best if you let these men take you to the hospital Sherlock. Do try not to be too difficult."_

With a small groan, Sherlock opens his eyes. He is in a hospital. _Why_ is he in a hospital? The oppressing white washed walls, the almost too clean starched sheets making him itch.

"Oh Sherlock thank goodness!" the familiar voice of Mrs. Hudson spoke from beside him, her face anxious. "That police officer, he said you just collapsed at the precinct. You haven't been eating or sleeping again dear."

Sherlock shook his head, sitting up, throwing the sheets off of him. "I'm fine, I assure you Mrs. Hudson," he said dismissively.

"Sherlock, try not to be difficult," John's voice came from his other side.

Sherlock frowned, turning toward him. "I am quite all right," he repeated, meeting John's eyes. "It was just a dizzy spell. There is nothing to be worried about. Hospitals make me itch."

"You haven't eaten since at least Tuesday," John admonished. "And you haven't been sleeping either. Please Sherlock, just for a day or so, stay and get some rest."

Wavering, the consulting detective met his doctor's concerned gaze, and slowly sank back into the hospital bed. He didn't want to stay, there was a case that required his attention. However, if he pushed too hard, John would ask him what was so important, and then he would have to explain. He would have to tell John about the case, and then John would be upset. Sherlock didn't like it when his John was upset. Of course, that meant the only solution was to stay here in the hospital for a bit. It was most vexing, the evidence would only continue to degrade and disappear the longer he stayed idle. "Very well," he said softly. "Just until the end of the day though John."

Mrs. Hudson stirred uncomfortably at his side. "Sherlock," she whispered. "The doctors have some concern…they say…they say you've not been taking proper care of yourself and that the…the _drugs_," she said the last in a poor excuse for a stage whisper, "The drugs are making it worse. You've got to stop this. You'll kill yourself if you're not careful."

Sherlock ignored her concern. The drugs were for the pain, but not only that, they helped him see clearly. He was still after Jim Moriarty, and when you were up against Moriarty you needed a sharp mind, clear of all distractions. It was the drugs that helped him focus and gave him much needed perspective. "I'm quite all right Mrs. Hudson," he responded. "You can return home. John will take care of me."

**After Note: **Yes! All those calculations are painstakingly correct! I spent days – okay more like minutes – on the internet making sure everything was correct in every sense of the word! Then I sat in my statistics class calculating the speed at which a bullet travels a certain distance instead of...whatever it was we were doing. I am pleased with this!


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: **Oh wow, it's been another month and a half since I updated this fic. I feel bad! But November tried to kill me! Honestly it did! School is an evil, evil thing! Good news though! It's almost over for the holidays! Yay! Firstly, I would like to thank everyone who has kept up with this; your comments are lovely and greatly appreciated! They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside and give me inspiration to keep writing when all I want to do is bang my head against a wall. Inspiration has come though! Through a wonderful announcement about Season 2! Yay January 1st!

On that note, I had originally planned to have this fic finished before Season 2 came out, obviously that's not going to happen. I shall keep posting it, as I have at least four people shouting in my ears at this very moment to finish, but there will undoubtedly be inconsistencies with Season 2, I hope you all can forgive me for this.

But, here is a bit of a longer chapter than normal which has made my wonderful beta **jessicahazel** smile and type at me in capslock; I hope you all enjoy it as much as she does.

**Chapter 4**

"I believe that I have stated that I am quite all right and more than fit to take myself home," Sherlock snapped at the unfortunate nurse who was currently involved in the futile process of trying to restrain him, and return him to his bed.

"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, the doctor has ordered that you be kept for overnight observation. He is concerned about your nutrition."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked past her at the door. She was avoiding his gaze: he made her uncomfortable, that wasn't unusual. However, the way she angled her body away from him meant that her unease was rooted in dislike or distaste. Well that was certainly unflattering. "The doctor cannot forcibly keep me here. I am checking myself out," he informed her icily, pushing past her, and heading for the door.

The nurse spluttered as the man brushed past her, immediately going to the room phone to call for the doctor. They hadn't been joking when they said that Mr. Holmes was a difficult patient. Unfortunately for the woman, Sherlock Holmes was not a man that could be easily managed by anyone, even if he was on the edge of collapse due to malnutrition.

"Oh for the love of - Sherlock! Get back in bed!" John appeared in the doorway of the room, blocking Sherlock's hopeful exit. "And stop terrorizing the nurses! You haven't even been here for twenty-four hours and this is already the third nurse. You promised Sherlock!"

"I promised I would stay until the end of the day," he responded testily. "It's the end of the day, and I would much prefer to be at home. Hospitals are so…" he inhaled, looking around at the stark white room, "…stifling."

John sighed, pointing back toward the hospital bed. "Bed. Now. If the doctor wants to keep you for overnight observation, you should stay. Can you not, just once, do something that's for your own good?"

"Yes, yes Doctor, same as before. Please send someone quickly."

Staring hard at John for a moment, Sherlock sighed slightly. This wasn't worth the argument, he was going home, and nobody was going to stop him; not even his doctor.

"I think that's quite enough Mr. Holmes," before he could get ten steps out of the door the doctor stepped in front of him, blocking his way once more. Glancing behind him, he saw John with his arms crossed over his chest, a serious expression on his face as he tilted his head back toward the room. "You are staying for overnight observation."

"Are you saying you're going to _make_ me Doctor?" Sherlock asked, his eyes narrowed slightly as he frowned.

The doctor sighed, and shook his head. "Drugs are clearly still in his system; it seems we've reached early stages of withdrawal," he spoke around the consulting detective to the nurse. "Someone will have to sit with him through the night. It's going to get worse."

Returning his attention to Sherlock, the doctor met his eyes. "Your brother is on the way Mr. Holmes. He was quite explicit in his orders for me to keep you here by any means possible, and has even provided me with a few extra…helpers. I ask you again; please get back into bed Mr. Holmes. You are an ill man."

"Just listen to him," John spoke up again, and placed a hand gently on Sherlock's arm. "Overnight observation; it won't do you any harm."

But it would do harm! He could feel it starting already. His mind was slowing, things were becoming less sharp, far harder to discern. Jaw clenching slightly, he turned slowly back towards the room. "Come then John" he said, and headed back into the room, though the set of his shoulders spoke volumes about his displeasure at being cornered. "I wish to discuss the Moriarty situation with you. I cannot remain idle."

The case for Lestrade, it seemed, would have to wait. Annoying as that was - evidence was being lost every minute he waited - if he wasn't being allowed out of this room it was highly unlikely that he would be permitted to work on a case. There was no way he could get John to help him with Lestrade's case, he didn't want John to know about Sarah; at least, not yet.

With John's urging, Sherlock finally got back into the hospital bed, just in time for Mycroft to appear in the doorway of the room. "Sherlock," Mycroft nodded in greeting.

His grip on the handle of his umbrella was abnormally tight Sherlock noted, easily picking out the faintest whitening of the knuckles. Was his brother actually nervous? No, that was…awkwardness? His brother never felt awkward, in fact, Sherlock was fairly certain that Mycroft had no notion of even the concept of awkwardness. "Mycroft," he acknowledged his gaze studiously neutral as he observed his brother.

"I hear you have been giving the doctor a bit of trouble Sherlock," Mycroft said, standing by the chair next to his brother's bed. "You really should stop doing that; they are only trying to do what is best for you. You haven't been taking very good care of yourself."

"I'm _fine_ Mycroft," Sherlock said softly, suddenly having the greatest desire for his violin; plucking the strings usually semi-drowned out his brother's incessant prattle.

"I would hardly call your current state 'fine'," the elder Holmes said condescendingly. "I've left you alone up until now, I thought you would have better judgement, but it seems you have fallen back into bad habits."

"Good-bye Mycroft," Sherlock said dismissively closing his eyes, trying to wish his brother away.

"I thought John was the right choice for you, it seems he's made you worse than ever."

The younger Holmes' jaw clenched, his eyes turned to his brother, sparking in challenge. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about Mycroft, and I would thank you to kindly remove yourself from my hospital room. I would leave, but you seem intent upon keeping me locked down inside it. Really, I thought the government would have better uses for its funding."

"You are being completely irrational Sherlock. Surely you do not expect me to believe that you are only in this bed because John told you to stay."

"That is exactly what I expect you to believe, although I don't see how my affairs are any of your business," he responded curtly. "I would prefer not to be in this bed Mycroft, but your dogs seem to have quite sharp teeth."

"You are my brother," Mycroft frowned, "Of course I am concerned for your wellbeing."

"I'm sorry; did I interrupt a revolution you were planning? Please, don't let me keep you," the sarcasm dripped from Sherlock's lips as he glared at his brother. "I am quite capable of taking care of myself Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed. His brother was difficult at the best of times, now he was just being positively incorrigible. John really was the only one who could seem to be able to manage him in any meaningful way. "I was concerned about your well fare Sherlock, it is hardly like you to collapse in Scotland Yard," he observed. "Do stop pushing yourself so hard in this misguided attempt to save the world, and force some kind of meaning into your life. It will not work Sherlock, though you seem intent on dismissing my every word on the subject..."

"_Goodbye_ Mycroft," Sherlock repeated, his tone more agitated now.

The elder Holmes regarded his brother in silence a moment longer before he stood slowly. "Very well," he said softly. "I will insist on you staying here until the good doctor clears you to go."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Are you holding me captive Mycroft?" he asked softly.

"Yes," he said offhandedly. "But just so Mummy doesn't have to," he finished, moving to the door.

His brother was worse than the doctors had led him to believe. His withdrawal symptoms were setting in strongly if he was behaving this anxious and paranoid. Of course, it had been Mycroft who had insisted they keep his little brother in the hospital until he was well past the withdrawal – he wasn't ignorant to the habits his brother had fallen back into – and well on his way back to some state that at least resembled good health. In all honesty, he didn't expect it to stick, his brother was most obstinate at times, but at least he would have some form of health, even if just for a few days.

"Keep him under strict surveillance," Mycroft instructed his 'dogs' as Sherlock had called them. "If the door doesn't work he _will_ try other routes."

Four days. He had been locked in this exceedingly bland room for the past four days, eight hours, thirty-seven minutes and eighteen, nineteen, twenty...How he wished John had brought his pistol to visiting hours. BORED! He was bored and no one seemed to care that he was feeling fine and needed to get back on the case...two cases in fact! Even Lestrade had been most unhelpful about the Sarah Sawyer case; refusing to give him anymore information the one time he had come to see him. It was beyond infuriating.

Climbing from his bed, Sherlock grabbed the blue robe the hospital had provided – they had taken his clothes away after his fifth escape attempt on the first day after Mycroft's enforced confinement – and moved to the door. He had been quiet for the past sixteen hours; hopefully Mycroft's dogs would have let their guard down a bit in the meantime. Bored dogs were inattentive dogs.

Easing the door open, he glanced down the hallway: all clear. Smiling in triumph, he closed the door, heading directly for the exit. Not too fast, he didn't want to draw attention to himself, the robe didn't help with this goal but there was really not much he could do about that. His first goal would be to get some...

"Where are you going Mr. Holmes?" Dog Number Four appeared out of nowhere, an amiable enough smile on his features, but Sherlock could see the smugness in his eyes.

"For a walk," he said blandly, refusing to give in.

"You're going the wrong direction Mr. Holmes," Number Four responded cheerily. "Your room is that way," he motioned back the way the consulting detective had come. "The doctor hasn't cleared you yet."

As much as it pained him to admit it, Sherlock knew that he couldn't dodge Number Four; he had tried on day two, attempt fourteen. It...had ended most uncomfortably for him. The only result had been him being carried back to his room in a most undignified manner. He really should be too tall for anyone to carry him like that comfortably...No, Number Four was not a viable option. Perhaps if it had been Number Two or Number Seven he might have considered it. Now, however, his only option was to go back to the room. He gritted his teeth. This was getting ridiculous! He was Sherlock Holmes! Surely he could get past a few hounds, even if they were Mycroft's hounds.

Resignedly, he made his way back to the room, glaring at the door as it closed behind Number Four. Well, that was one option out. Perhaps it was time for more drastic measures. Once again the consulting detective's eyes scanned his hospital room, but it yielded even less options now than it had on his first day of confinement. The bathroom was no good; it had been locked on day two after escape attempt thirty-seven. Apparently the staff hadn't appreciated his improper use of toilet paper, the sink and his slipper. Really, they shouldn't be aiding Mycroft, all this could be fixed if he was allowed out of this unbearable room!

It was all made worse by the fact that Mycroft had seemed to leave orders that he wasn't to have any visitors after Lestrade had visited. He had almost made it out that time. The Detective Inspector hadn't even realized that he had taken his handcuffs. Useful things handcuffs, unfortunately he had been outnumbered. Still, Sherlock was convinced there was a way out of this, he just hadn't thought of it – also Mycroft's fault. He hadn't been home in four days, and he wasn't even allowed nicotine patches in the hospital, ridiculous really.

Finally, his eyes landed on his bed sheets, the one thing they had not yet taken from him. Yes, he had contemplated it before, but it was rather simple and obvious, but perhaps that was the edge he needed. No doubt Mycroft had warned them to be on guard against his more brilliant schemes (not that walking directly for the front door had been particularly inspired), but this? A slow smile crept its way across the consulting detective's gaunt features. Yes, this should work nicely.

Immediately he stripped his bed, beginning to tear the sheets into long strips that he tied together carefully. Yes, yes this should work wonderfully. Sherlock was aware that he was on the fifth floor, but that was inconsequential, as long as he could get at least one or two floors down he could evade the Dogs and get out of this oppressing place. He would have to make sure he could locate some clothing once he'd slipped in on one of the lower levels. Yes, trying to walk out in this ridiculous nightgown, that was much too short, and housecoat was not a wise idea; it would garner far too much attention.

When his makeshift rope was complete, Sherlock moved toward the window, they hadn't locked it. Triumph swelled. They didn't think he would try to climb out of a window five stories up? Clearly Mycroft had not made them fully aware of what he was capable of. Sliding open the window, he looked down. The ground was quite a fair distance away. Looking back at his blanket rope, he wondered if it would be long enough for its intended purpose. Gathering it up, he tossed it out, watching as it fell to almost three floors down. Yes, that would be far enough down. Now, where to fasten it...

When everything was to his satisfaction, Sherlock climbed onto the windowsill and slowly began to ease himself down his makeshift rope ladder. Why hadn't he thought of this before? It was the perfect escape plan, he didn't have to deal with any of the dogs, and if he ignored the precarious height, the breeze was actually quite refreshing.

"Mr. Holmes," a feminine voice came from below him. Sherlock frowned, he wasn't even half way down, no one should be watching the outside of the building...He looked down. A nurse stood below him, Number Four was at her side, his arms crossed at his chest. Despite this rather foreboding posture, he had a smile that spoke of great amusement. "Would you kindly climb back up to your room Mr. Holmes? There have been some complaints of a half naked man scaling the building."

Oh yes, windows, his wasn't the only room on this side of the building. He supposed that given the state of his short nightgown, the breeze, and the fact that he had been climbing down a rope certainly would have provided an interesting view if people had been looking out their windows when he had passed.

"If you would prefer Mr. Holmes, I can always wait for you down here and bring you back to your room. It is no trouble," Number Four piped up.

He would rather die than have Number Four escort him back to his room. "I'm quite all right, thank-you," he said frostily. Though really, he did wonder how he was going to get all the way back to his room. Hanging here was hard enough; it took much more upper body strength than he had calculated. Once he might have been able to, but sitting around in a hospital room had robbed him of his strength – at least, that was what he kept telling himself. "I think I'll stay here for a bit, I do hope this doesn't inconvenience you." It was bluff, mainly, he couldn't continue hanging in place for much longer, but he was trying to stall and come up with some alternative to the two options that had been given to him.

Perhaps he could get back up to the fourth floor windows, enter the building there, and make a break for it? Well, it was the only option that was at least remotely appealing. Not sophisticated, and little chance of success – only .005 – but it would have to do. Gritting his teeth, he proceeded to do just that. He had to be quick though, Number Four would have to get back in the building, and up to the fourth floor, if he was lucky, it would take him at least five minutes, which would give him a good two minute head start on him.

Reaching the window, he managed to open it from the outside – a more difficult feat than one would imagine, mainly owing to gravity and the use of only one arm – and ducked in quickly.

There was a loud cry of surprise as the old woman in the room woke to find a strange man in her room. "W-who are you?" she asked, blinking her milky eyes in his directions. "Why are you in that dress? And what are you doing climbing into my window?"

Sherlock ignored her, right at that moment he was busy calculating the best possible route of escape. Route A yielded only .0001% chance of escape. Route B, however, was slightly better at .002% as it was 7.85 feet closer to the fire escape and 9.2 feet further away from the stairs Number Four would have to take in order to reach him. That would have to do. Dismissing the woman from his mind, he sprinted toward the door, threw it open, and stopped short as Mycroft barred his way.

"Making new friends Sherlock?" he asked, adjusting his umbrella in his hand as he raised his head to meet his brother's eyes.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock blinked. Mycroft shouldn't be here. His brother had already taken time out of his busy schedule to issue his ultimatum and his orders; it wasn't like him to actually come down among the rabble. He didn't like legwork. The consulting detective frowned.

"I had hoped you had grown accustomed to the convention of 'clothing' when you went out visiting Sherlock," Mycroft continued condescendingly.

Standing beside his brother was Mycroft's aide, absently holding out a package of clothing to him. "Congratulations," she said, not sounding the least bit excited as she looked up from her phone. "You've been cleared for release Mr. Holmes."

Taking the clothes, Sherlock glared at his brother.

"I thought I would come down and offer you a ride back to your quaint little flat," Mycroft said in response to the question he hadn't asked.

"Sir, the president," Anthea said softly, looking toward her employer.

"Quite right," Mycroft nodded. Returning his attention to his brother he quirked a brow. "Were you planning on leaving in that? I've already taken care of the paper work, but I am in a bit of a hurry Sherlock."

"I would change Mycroft, but you happen to be blocking the exit, this isn't exactly my room."

"Yes," the elder Holmes looked around his brother. "I do hope he hasn't disturbed you too much madam. We shall take him off your hands now."

"I'll take a cab home. Goodbye Mycroft," Sherlock said shortly. Stalking past his brother, Sherlock moved to the nearest bathroom to change. At least Mycroft hadn't tried to dress him again, the clothes in his hands were indeed the ones he had been wearing a few days ago, but now freshly washed. Dressing quickly, he tightened his scarf around his throat. At last! He could go home.

Home. At last. "John?" Sherlock called as he opened the door, stepping into the familiar flat. It seemed that John had been cleaning during the past few days. His manila folders were all stacked neatly by the bookshelf, the kitchen table cleared. Not that he was hungry, but a quick glance in the refrigerator proved that his flatmate had indeed been shopping.

"John?" the consulting detective called again. Still no response. He must be out, perhaps working at the clinic? It would explain why Mycroft had come to pick him up from the hospital instead of his doctor. No matter, he could do a bit of work first. Dr. Sawyer's case was still open. First things first however; Turning away from the kitchen, he went back into the living room, and headed straight for the mantle.

For the second time that day he was forced to draw up short. Gone? "Alas, poor Yorick," he said softly. Damn Mycroft! He had no doubt his brother had a hand in this. Running a hand over the empty spot on the mantle, his eyes turned contemplative.

Where was he going to find a new skull?

**Post Script: **I wanted to thank everyone who has reviewed for reviewing! I meant to respond to you all but it seems the response button is not working for me for some reason. I would like you all to know that I really appreciate the comments! And the mystery will be revealed...eventually! What kind of author would I be if I spoiled the thing that is keeping you all reading? So please! Do keep reading and reviewing, the wonderful reviews help me to keep writing.


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